


Safehouse

by thepeskyunicorn



Series: In Heat [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5653036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going into heat has many perks, but Illya helping him through it is the best of all</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safehouse

The three of them are dropped in Taiwan earlier this week, sent to recover a set of codes to break up a human and arms trafficking ring of a rich tycoon. Napoleon had twitched and itched irritably through the entire briefing back in London HQ, earning glares from Illya and concerned looks from Gaby. Waverly, in his usual vague manner, couldn’t care less, although he did send for a deliver of extra strength scent blockers to his room before they left. Napoleon gritted his teeth against the heat burning low in his belly and dismissed their concerns.

Four days later and five hours of surveillance in a ditch, followed by a semi-successful heist has Illya and Napoleon limping towards the pick up point, where Gaby is waiting impatiently with a car, ready to ferry them to their safehouse, her lips tight and brows furrowed in worry. As soon as they stumbled in, she sets her foot down on the accelerator and tears off, rubber burning, before Napoleon has the chance to properly close the door, causing him to almost shut it on his finger. Cursing inelegantly, he laid back in his seat, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh of relief. A few bruises and minor cuts is something he can live with; there should be some brandy in his luggage that he can have a swig of to numb the pain, which shouldn't mix too badly with his heat suppressants- 

Wait.

Napoleon sniffed the air, reaching down to touch the damp spot on the leather seat where his slick has leaked through his pants. Dammit, his heat has arrived early. He groaned.

"Solo? You ok?"

Napoleon waved off Gaby's concerns. "I'll be fine. Now just put your foot down, and drive a little faster, won’t you?”

Gaby glared into the rearview mirror, obviously miffed at Napoleon’s patronizing tone, making sure to drive extra erratically so that he could feel every bump and pothole on the road. Illya huffed a laugh at Napoleon’s groans, seemingly unaffected by the rough journey.

As per the job, the three of the are assigned a safehouse at the end of every mission.They vary in infrastructure and facilities, from the dankest motel in the wrong side of town, sour with the smell of ammonia and sweat, to the swanky five star hotels, completed with a walk in wardrobe and a diffuser to release a neutral beta scent, perfect for avoiding embarrassing situations.

The safehouse that Gaby leads them to is a holiday inn near the central part of town, small and nondescript in its appearance. As there is no need to pretend she and Illya are fiancés, Gaby has taken dibs in the room above theirs, whisking off with her luggage in hand, talking about something that vaguely sounds like 'girl's night in', leaving the two of them to stare awkwardly at the key in Napoleon’s hand which leads them to the room. Napoleon isn't sure Gaby or Illya could smell him leaking through his pants yet, but the scent blockers were quickly wearing off and he could feel the familiar licking of the fire low in his belly. This is not a good idea.

Their room is painted a cheerful yellow and neat, sparsely furnished with a television and a small desk. Were it not for the slowly warming scent of an omega in heat, Napoleon would have pegged it as 'homely'.

This isn't the first time he hit heat during the mission. He usually times it carefully,taking his meds and delaying what he could to make sure it was only starts to gain strength by the time the mission ends. That way, he can be safely out in twenty-four hour and away from the annoyingly delicious alpha scent that is Illya, locked in his bedroom with his luxurious collection of toys and fantasies to satisfy him. 

Napoleon had been certain that he was reaching his peak a whole week before his heat starts, what with the way his senses has sharpened and his appetite had grown. But it wasn't supposed to hit full steam today, and he cursed himself for his carelessness. Stress and adrenalin always speeds things up, and a fist fight with five men followed by a car chase is not exactly relaxing.

In a way, being in omega in heat is the best situation he could hope for during mission, with his senses at its most alert,his mind sharper and movements fluid, body pushed to the limit to search, locate, and mate. It is a gift, and an addictive feeling, to know that he is wanted and needed, an ego boost for him. As long as he put in scent blockers, no one would be able to smell him out, and the mission would usually be a complete success.

But not now. Not in a safehouse that he has to share. With Illya. An alpha.

It's not that he doesn't trust Illya not to take advantage of the situation. Hell, even consumed in unending waves of lust, Napoleon is sure he could still take Illya on. No, it isn't about protecting his long lost virtue.

Napoleon likes Illya.

He likes Illya the same way a seventh grader likes his crush. Painfully in lust, intrigued, wanting more, but never pushing the situation further than it would stretch. Napoleon may be unflinching in the face of mortal danger, but he couldn't bring himself to admit his feelings for a partner. Pathetic, really.

And it changes thing. He wants, so badly, avarice digging deep under his skin to set root there. He is painfully aware of Illya's outer appeal, but it's what's beneath the surface that endears him the most. His strength, his grace, the way the scarred and beaten up beast chained in him still keeps the lamb of innocence and gentleness close to his heart. Sometimes, it hurts, when his eyes slide to his side, the ever present presence guarding his back, strong and comforting scent grounding him. He knows he cannot have what he wants, not in this business where they both know nothing is permanent, not lives and certainly not relationships. But Napoleon, foolish and stubborn in nature, still aches for it anyway.

"Cowboy?"

Napoleon starts at Illya's concerned tone, realising he had been staring at the clothes in his hands for a few long minutes. Turning his body but avoiding eye contact, Napoleon tilts his head in askance, hoping Illya wouldn't notice the way his pupils has blown up.

"Cowboy? Are you ok?"

Napoleon cleared his throat, eyes darting up for a fleeting second before turning to his luggage again. Illya is frowning, forehead wrinkled and fingers itching to help. "I'll be fine in a minute, Peril."

He hears Illya sniff and air and feels his surprise lightening his scent. "You're in heat."

His tone is matter of fact, too casual and practiced. Illya may be a good spy, but he's a horrible liar. At least, to those who knows him.

"You're in heat because of me."

Napoleon sighed in frustration, fingers fiddling with the collar of the shirt before him to find something to occupy his urge to grab Illya and just kiss him stupid. "Don't flatter yourself Peril. You know it doesn't work that way."

Illya's next words are much closer to him, making him almost jump at the soft distinctive rumble. "No, but it arrived early because I am here." There is a soft sound of something being set down. "You are always so careful, Cowboy. I am sorry for complicating this for you." There is the sound of Illya turning, feet scuffing the ground, none of his usual light, purposeful grace. "I will change rooms with Gaby. She is beta. Will not affect you the same way."

Napoleon should let him go. He should keep his mouth shut, let the exchange of rooms happen, lock himself in the bathroom and spend a night of frustration until their pickup arrives.

But instead, he sighs, turns, and let the momentum carry him to grab Illya's wrist and mash their mouths together.

Napoleon is a master in seduction, perfecting it to an art, priding himself on noticing the nuances of kissing and sex to elicit the maximum pleasure. But this kiss has none of his skills, only a hard, messy sealing of lips, too sloppy and uncomfortable for it to be enjoyable.

Illya is still throughout, marble stone on ice, neither reacting nor reciprocating. His scent does not change, the deep, steady thrum of alpha baseline never skipping to arousal or excitement at the contact of sliding lips. Napoleon might as well be kissing a wall.

"Cowboy," Illya pulls him away from his chest, uncharacteristically gentle and sad. "You do not want this. You are desperate and in heat. Do not do something you will regret in the morning."

Napoleon stands in the middle of the room, adrift and confused. There is a chance that he might have read the situation wrong, but he had been so sure of the signs. There is no way he’s wrong. "Peril, I am quite sure I have no idea what you're talking about." tilting his head, he subtly pulled down his collar, knowing his best angle. "I know you can smell me from all the way there. Tell me, do you really think I'll be regretting this in the morning?"

Getting the front row seat to seeing Illya's pupils dilate and his scent curls into want is really an experience.

"Are you sure about this, Cowboy?" Illya asks quietly, ever so shy and respectful, the way he lower his eyes hitting all of his buttons.

Napoleon grins, the one he reserves for victory, for play. "Why don't you come here and we'll see just how I live up to my nickname?"

He feels the kiss before his mind can comprehend the blur of motion. Illya hauls him in, lips sliding and tongues tangling, the wet sounds of their mouths connecting and separating all they can hear above the pounding of their hearts. Napoleon could feel himself leak through his briefs, mind half insane with lust and happiness. 

He could feel his hands flitting from Illya's hair, to his jaws, to his waist, shaky and indecisive. In the end, he settles them on Illya's sides, fingers roaming the ridges of his ribs and the hardness of his torso under his shirt. He could feel Illya's hand in his hair, grasping and pulling, the other sneaking down to grab Napoleon’s ass, flexing and kneading, reverent and increasingly desperate. Napoleon could feel Illya grinding against him, but finesse be damn because he's sure his underwear is unsalvageable now, soaked through as it is.

Yes, going into heat has many perks, but this one is the best of all.

\---  
Napoleon arches his back to meet Illya lips, mouth half open and eyes closed in ecstasy. He may be close to losing his mind because the way Illya is pulling his ass wide open, bare hand coming to encompass one cheek entirely, and licking deep into him is so deliciously debauched, he can't even think straight. 

Illya had torn both his and Napoleon's clothes off, grace be damned, pushing him onto the bed. He kisses like he fights, and he fights like he fucks, doors kicked down and guns blazing, all take no prisoners mentality with a single minded focus on his victim. And right now, he’s sucking vicious little hickeys all over Napoleon’s body like it owns him something, hands touching and kneading and wanting, eyes almost black with lust, a beast of insatiable appetite, all for Napoleon. He keens, high and desperate, wanting anything and everything Illya would give him.

Biting his lips, he choked back a scream as Illya inserted a finger in, crooking it with deadly precision, tongue curling in simultaneously. Turning to look over his shoulders, he whined grumpily. "You've been taking your time down there," he pants, not entirely sure how he's still forming words. "Could you please get on with the programme?"

Illya looks up, pulling his mouth free with a dirty slurp that Napoleon will jerk off to for the rest of his life. His blonde curls are stuck to his forehead with sweat, lips a tantalizing red and his mouth smeared with Napoleon’s slick. It may just be the best sight Napoleon has seen in his entire life. 

He must look as wrecked as he feels, because Illya's eyes darken and he growls, "Patience," before lowering his head to dive in again. Napoleon huffed, hips bucking up in pleasure. He grinds down, trying to find friction, desperate to get off, only for Illya to grab his hips in a vice grip. 

"You will only get off with my cock in you."

Napoleon moans and bury his head in the pillow. Illya is really going to ruin him.

Another long finger slips in to join the first, scissoring and stretching him wide, making him gasp and ache for more. He jerked in surprise as the third finger quickly joined the other two, slick leaking copiously now, as they work in tandem around Illya's tongue. He grits his teeth, trying to stem the rising tide of orgasm as Illya rubs a thumb across his perineum and hums, sounding very pleased with himself at Napoleon’s broken moan. The tease, Napoleon thought viciously. Illya's going to be the death of him.

The room is heavy with the smell of mating and anticipation, every gasp and groan and obscenely wet sound amplified by Napoleon’s amped up senses. He feels Illya move off the bed, leaving only cool air kissing the back of his ass as he whines needily, humping the sheets beneath him. 

And then suddenly Illya is everywhere, large body covering Napoleon’s almost possessively, and the sound of tearing almost makes Napoleon pant out a laugh. Typical Illya, always so considerate, so responsible, even in the unlikeliest of situations.

Napoleon feels Illya push in, larger than he expected, larger than anything he has ever taken, even with the thorough preparation. He embraces the gritty slide, the way he lights up inside when Illya shifts to push in deeper, fingers pressing bruises on his skin as they flex on his hips. Napoleon is fully convinced that there is nowhere he’d rather be, no better feeling to be had than the solid weight of his Peril against him, in him and around him, consuming and taking and possessing.

But then Illya starts to move, small jerks of his hips, and Napoleon throws back his head, too lost to form words, lips ,mouthing curses at the delicious slide lighting up his insides instead.

Illya is gentle, a laughable idea, moving slow and careful, until need burns away his cautiousness and he begins to thrust in earnest, one hand coming up to fist Napoleon’s hair, pulling back to expose his throat. Napoleon goes easily, making a noise of happiness and Illya growls, low and animalistic, burying his head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, hips pumping quick and smooth. Napoleon should be more worried about how a very large part of him doesn’t mind Illya sinking his teeth in and claiming him,but unfortunately, or fortunately, Illya didn’t seem interested in that, choosing to occupy himself by worrying his teeth on the skin of his throat, so close to breaking skin yet mindful not to.

Napoleon could feel his orgasm start to rise, from the trembling of his thighs to the small, choked off sounds he makes whenever Illya hits his sweet spot, caged between arms that could snap a man’s back. He’s never felt so safe, so utterly at home, here in the arms of someone so flawed. Grabbing the back of Illya’s head and mashing their lips together, he comes, screaming his release into Illya’s mouth, eyes rolling back for a moment. 

He could feel Illya letting him down, chest to the scratchy sheets, thrusts getting just a little more erratic before gasping out a soft curse into the back of Napoleon’s neck, rolling to his side and collapsing. Even through the very pleasant post orgasmic haze, Napoleon realised that Illya hadn’t knotted him. Interesting.

He opens his mouth to ask, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, bones like jelly and eyelids drooping. He did manage a noise of question as Illya pulls him into an embrace, his back to the other man’s front, Illya’s hand over his chest. 

He feels Illya smile at the back of his head, soft breath ruffling his hair. “Go to sleep, Cowboy,” he whispers, dropping a kiss behind his ear. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

Napoleon allows himself to finally let his guard down, breaths starting to deepen and heat a low fire in his belly, sated and curbed for now. He allows the hands to start combing his hair, soft smile lighting his face as he drifts off to sleep, contented and warm.

No two safehouses are alike, with many a blur of faces and plain furniture mixed with memories he’d rather forget. But here, in the small cheery room ripe with the scent of sex and the warmth of Illya surrounding him, Napoleon made an effort to remember, a small comfort he keeps tucked away for himself, a moment of infinite possibilities. Going into heat has many perks, but this? Is the best of all.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'puppy in a wrecking ball's body' is taken from an interview with Armie Hammer, who plays Illya. Personally, I think it's a great description on how Illya acts.


End file.
